by Myrna Dey
“It’s all right, Janet,” Jane says quietly. “I asked her for it. I need to write a letter to your Aunt Catherine. Sometimes words are necessary.”
Unable to withstand two attacks, Sara retaliates against the sober one. “Leave Mama,” she shouts at her sister for the first time ever. “You don’t love words the way we do.”
Janet drops the wet sheet on the oilcloth table cover and runs sobbing into the bedroom.
“Sara,” Jane says as emphatically as she can. “You must never fight with your sister. She’s your heart and soul.”
Sara nods and Janet returns. Wordlessly, they hang the damp, pungent sheet on the laundry line, sealing their mother off from the rest of the house, and worse, from them. With the unison of twins, they take knives and finish chopping onions for the poultice. For once, Sara’s strokes are more precise and focused than her sister’s, allowing Janet to shed enough tears for them both.
Behind the curtain, Jane develops a rhythm to ration her diminishing reserves. Write, rest, breathe. Increasingly, she must struggle to raise her head from the pillows between scrawled sentences. No time to feel remorse over bad penmanship. Urgency stokes dying embers, releasing a flare-up of words. All the books she loved so much to read offer their language in a last rite, sometimes in her mother’s Welsh rhythms. The letter will set her story down, but not here, not where it could hurt Roland, who gave his name in good faith to the child she was carrying. Nor does she want a new image of herself altering any detail of the perfect love she shares with her children. Sweet Cassie will receive Jane’s words of atonement for the silence she has held so long about her friend Louis Strong. His kind face visits her feverish brain.
Please forgive me Louis for not coming forward at the trial. My mind turned in on itself when I was so close to death.
Of his doomed grandson no one ever knew, not even the baby’s father. How we both loved Adam. Stickiness oozes from her ear and she dabs more blood on the rag already red from her nose and sputum. Along with bodily fluids, the infection releases senses frozen from the pictures just hours ago, and for twenty-four years before that. Her longing for Adam momentarily revives her breath, the same way he stopped it back then. By leaving her alone as agreed, he protected her from gossip. Later she heard that after Henry Hargraves was acquitted of the murder of their father, the Strong brothers moved to the mainland. Ruby returned to Salt Spring Island to take a teaching position and to care for their mother. Where were they now? Would any of them have understood her silence?
“Mama!” Janet cries. “Why so many pages? You must rest yourself.”
A loud sigh issues from Jane’s throat. The pen drops on the blanket after she makes a faint squiggly version of her name at the bottom of the letter.
“I’m done,” she says, summoning her twins to her side. She includes Janet in this sacred task by asking her to fold the five pages, bring an envelope from the desk, and seal it. This twin will have no curiosity about the contents.
“I’ll write the address, Mama,” says Sara, crowding her sister’s hand in the drawer, as she seeks the address book. “And lick the stamp.”
“Thank you, my beauties. Please mail it later today.”
At the stove, Janet heats the pan of onions, mixes salt and enough flour to prevent juices from seeping. Sara adds a large scoop of goose grease before stepping back to let her sister’s deft fingers seal the hot mixture in red flannel and lay it on their mother’s chest.
“Promise me you will always try to find the good in people,” Jane murmurs. “Especially your father.”
Weeping, Sara interrupts what sound like parting words. “The poultice will draw out the poisons, Mama.”
“Give Mrs. Krall our provisions and she will cook food for you. You’re my angels, you know that…”
Janet’s sobs drown her out. “Llewyllyn is going to come home from the war and help with everything to make you strong again.”
A wave of surrender swamps Jane’s aching heart and body. More farewells will only upset her daughters. She can do nothing else for them. They know their few keepsakes — the photos, her bracelets — are in the sachet pouch, now empty of coins since she stopped taking in so much sewing. How she prays they are spared the sight of the death wagon.
“Mama,” Sara exclaims, “your skin is turning blue. You look like a Negro lady.”
Janet yanks at Sara’s arm to be quiet, but Jane smiles at the comparison; she wonders if she resembles Ruby Strong. She prefers Sara’s description to cyanosis, its clinical term.
“I’m thirsty. Could you get me some water, Janet?” Her lips are swollen and parched. Because of the washing, Janet must again run outside for a pail of clean water from Milt’s pump. Jane’s inhalations are strained, but her nostrils clear; a deep and cleansing breath of lilacs has just erased a brief whiff of the same stinking brew of rotten meat, foul breath, brackish flower water, and privies she smelled outside the butcher’s cabin.
“Sara, please come close.”
Sara climbs onto the cot and presses herself tenderly against her mother’s shoulder. Jane blinks away a mist dimming her vision. She sees someone walking toward her through the nebula — a straight, tall, dark man with a wide smile extending his hand. Behind him is a shadowy figure she cannot make out — someone younger, perhaps. Is it her son? He has no place to cry alone. He is surrounded by soldiers in splashing mud, gas masks, bayonets, and bullets. Short of a thumb, his fingers fumble on the trigger. She longs to hide him but she has no time left. The outstretched hand is coming closer and she takes it: sturdy and work-worn, a familiar hand she trusts.
Sara must put her ear to her mother’s lips to hear: “If you ever have a son, please call him Louis.” So feebly spoken the last syllable of the name is indistinct. “His name must be honoured because he was a fine and gentle man. And he had no one to help him.”
A smile starts across Jane’s cracked lips but is cut short by something more private and enigmatic. Sara kneels next to her, staring. She looks up only when Janet’s screams wrest her from her mother’s captivating secret.
THREE MEMOS LANDED ON MY DESK before the date sank in: February 13. Dad and I had survived birthdays and Christmas without Mom, but Valentine’s Day would mark a year since her death. I felt bad the anniversary had almost slipped my mind, especially since Dad would be thinking of it every minute and would never dream of reminding me in my important busy schedule.
The first memo was a court notifier setting the trial date for Andy Lambert’s testimony on April 5. Dex was the primary on that and should be arranging to bring him over from the island. The second was a court lens for a prelim on March 15 for my own case versus the two young offenders for attempted murder. Crown prosecutor was Ray Kelsey, and his name caused neither the flips nor the flops it once had. The third sheet did bring more of a physical response: a note from Wayne that the diary date on the Kubik investigation was overdue. Please review this file and provide an update. It was a routine procedure to us all, but I felt responsible for the standstill in the case, given my access to the Kubiks. I had left a message awhile ago for Selena to call me but she hadn’t. I wanted to talk to her alone about Greg McGimpsey.
I dialled Dad’s number. Big flakes of snow were drifting past the window and melting on contact. I mouthed his words along with him when he picked up: “Did you see the snow? I hope you’ll take your time driving home tonight. This city isn’t equipped for slush.”
“Yes, Dad. Anything planned for tomorrow?”
“Thought I’d walk to the two parks to visit your mother and mine.”
It was not surprising that Sara had always been specific about having her ashes strewn around the giant weeping willows in Douglas Park she loved so much. But Mom, for all her organization, left no instructions for her death. More remarkable was that Dad made a decision immediately as to where we would dispose of her cremated remains: Queen Elizabeth Park. It had been one of her favourite running routes, close enough to home that it became a
mere appetizer before supper. The winding ascent up Little Mountain built lung power while the rock gardens distracted from its pain. Dad was firm that he and I would scatter her ashes alone at sunset sometime after her big funeral. He singled out a sequoia tree at the bottom of the hill close to a pond. I told him he had ruined the possibility of a family plot by burying them ten blocks apart, but he insisted the birds and bees would link the two final resting places. Both women deserved to rule in their domains.
“I’ll leave for Douglas at four.”
“I’ll meet you there at four-thirty.”
“Supper at Seasons on the Park is on me if you don’t have any exciting plans for Valentine’s Day.”
“Not so far.”
When I hung up on Dad, both my phones rang. My cellphone was an unknown number, so I answered the call of duty.
“Constable Dryvynsydes?” said the only voice I knew that throaty.
“How are you, Selena?”
“I am managing, thank you. You called?”
“I wanted to talk to you about something.”
“New evidence?”
“Maybe. Has your husband gone back to work?”
“Yes, I am alone.”
“Is tomorrow morning at ten convenient?”
“I will see you then.”
On my cellphone was a message from Warren. Did I have plans for supper tomorrow? I asked myself what Retha would do and heard a distinct answer: both. I called Warren and explained the situation with Dad, agreeing to meet him at an upscale restaurant on south Granville at seven. I then called Dad and trimmed our agenda. No guilt was exchanged.
Colleen Street was deserted compared to the last time I saw the crescent filled with cruisers and media vans. It seemed odd to have the door opened by Selena in charge of her own home.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” I said,
“Valentine’s Day — is it? Happy, no.”
She was wearing a black Lululemon jogging suit, the spandex making her frame look like a skeleton. Her sleek hair was held back at the neck with a silver clip; the olive tones of her skin had become sallow except for darker patches around her eyes. She gestured me toward one of the leather sofas and asked if I would like a cup of coffee. Usually, I refused any beverage when I was on duty but just as she offered it, the sun broke through the filmy curtains on the bay window, reflecting a glint of colour from the raku bowl sitting on the pewter shelf. Once again, I was enticed into Selena’s world and nodded.
Not surprisingly, the coffee was as strong as espresso; I felt like a peasant asking for milk. She sat on her Bauhaus chair and stared at me until I spoke.
“Greg McGimpsey.”
Her expression became cautious but not startled; it occurred to me that Vlasta or Marek might have called. “What about him?”
“You know him.”
“Yes.”
“He drives a white Porsche. He knows you. What can you tell me about him?”
She sipped her coffee and licked her lips. “What did he say?”
“I asked you first,” I said lightly, as I would to a friend.
She stood up and circled her chair with the cup in her hand. “We were in a drama group together. We were good friends.”
“Could he have had anything to do with the homicide?”
“You spoke to him. What do you think?”
“I don’t recall mentioning that I spoke to him.”
She turned sharply to me. “You said he knew me. How would you find that out without speaking to him? Unless you are going on the word of my sister and brother-in-law.”
That opened it up. When I said “We should have you on our team,” she gave me a half-smile, the kind Marek Kubik said was worth a month of grins from anyone else. “All three said the same thing. That you were friends from the theatre group.”
“So what else do you want to know?”
We were going in circles. “My original question. Did he or his car have anything to do with Anton’s death?”
She sat down on the chair, crossed her legs, stared out the window, and shook her head with emphatic disdain. The sun had retreated, and her black outfit made her look like a shadow against the slate-coloured space inside and out.
“Would you confirm that for the record?” I spoke again almost lightly because I was not taking notes.
“The answer to your question is no.”
“He was not the one who came to your door in a white Porsche?”
“Constable Dryvynsydes.” Her voice rose in exasperation. “Why would Greg McGimpsey want to kill my baby?”
“I’m not saying he did. I’m just trying to connect the dots. We have someone you know driving a white Porsche.”
“Would it not make more sense to look for white Porsches driven by people I do not know? Greg McGimpsey would not want to hurt my baby.”
She opened a narrow, flat drawer in an end table and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and matches. She slid one out and offered it to me conspiratorially, as if we were at a teenage slumber party. I was strangely tempted, even though my last smoke had been with Gail the night before her wedding. I shook my head.
She lit hers, using an oblong jade bowl on the end table as an ashtray. “Did Greg McGimpsey give you cause for suspicion?”
Would anyone but Selena repeat the last name of a friend like this? She spoke as if I were in the dock and she were questioning me. “Not particularly. He said he called with condolences when he saw it on the news.”
“I missed his call.” She turned her head to the side to blow a ring of smoke. “He might have spoken to Jan.”
“When last did you see him?”
She took another deep drag and looked away again. “I can’t remember.”
“Did you go to any theatre productions since you quit?”
“Last fall, yes. And I saw him once downtown since then.”
Their stories meshed. “Was his girlfriend with him?”
“Why do you ask that?” She stood up again, went to the kitchen and returned with the coffee pot, which was narrow and sculpted — like her.
“I’m a cop, a nosy one. Why not?”
“He was alone. I had Anton. But I saw her in the play. She joined after me.”
“They’re engaged,” I said, holding my cup for her to pour, then pulling my hand back quickly when coffee overflowed onto my fingers.
“I am very sorry,” she said, reaching across and rubbing my hand in a comforting massage as she blotted the coffee with a cocktail napkin from the cigarette drawer. “Did you meet her, the fiancée? Is that why you bring this up?”
“No, but she called.” As soon as I said it, I remembered I was not here to gossip. Selena had a similar realization and lowered her gaze. She opened the drawer again and brought out a small yellow candle. I resisted the urge to ask her what other smoking paraphernalia were in there — a hookah, maybe? I inhaled appreciatively.
“Pineapple. It is a subtle scent and hard to find.”
Like you, I thought again. “And your husband won’t smell the cigarettes.” She gave me another half-smile.
“How is he?”
“On the outside he is the same — dutiful and protective — but he has a big empty hole inside.”
“I can’t imagine your loss.” I knew from experience that Selena’s surge of engagement was over and would not come back. Once more, I was coming away with nothing but undercurrents, nothing that could implicate Greg McGimpsey or anyone else in the death of Anton Kubik. I stood up. “We’re not much further ahead, are we?”
A trace of wistfulness crossed her face at the thought of my departure, but she collected herself. She walked me to the front door.
“Your sister and brother-in-law care about you and Jan. They want to help.”
“Vlasta and Marek are both very sweet. We know that. Thank you.” She shivered at the chill in the air. “It feels like snow again.”
I paused for a moment on the threshold. The perfect order of the house almost mask
ed the turbulence submerged in this woman’s gaunt frame. And as soon as her husband came home, it would be buried beyond detection. “You’ll hear from me. Take care of yourself in the meantime.”
She nodded and closed the door.
When I got back to the office, Wayne and Tessa were helping the Sex Crimes unit with the assault case. A teacher, age forty, was charged with sexual exploitation of a fourteen-year-old student. He denied the accusation, claiming the girl had been provocative — asking for help unnecessarily, lingering after volleyball games — and was getting even with him. Didn’t he watch TV and read the papers? All the high-profile cases of teachers, both male and female, molesting their students should have kept him on his guard, even if he were telling the truth.
Sexual assault charges were often the hardest to untangle. An allegation of molestation against either herself or one of her children was the most damaging act of revenge a woman could commit. But the real thing was so despicable that every accusation had to be investigated thoroughly. No one remains assigned to sex crimes units for long because of the stress involved. Homicide sounds more dramatic, but dead victims can’t lie or manipulate.
The teacher, Mr. Naylor, was married with two kids, and had a clean record in that school for six years. Tessa had been doing interviews with other kids, teachers, school board members; even Sukhi had been called in to talk to a shy East Indian boy who was a friend of the victim. Not much evidence supporting the girl’s case had turned up, besides her emotional testimony and that of her parents. The newest lead came from Calgary, where he had taught before moving to Burnaby. Seems there was a smudge on his file at the Calgary School Board: allegations of sexual exploitation with no charges pressed. The thirteen-year-old girl and her family had not wanted to come forward. Naylor had also denied it on that occasion and had moved to B.C. shortly after. The girl would be nineteen now and might be willing to talk.
